Category Linkin Park

Heartbeats by Elisa

Written on a whim and not beta'd...as per usual.


For Autumn.


They don’t mean to do it.

They’re drunk. They’ve consumed most of the contents of a bottle of Jack Daniels together, and they’re completely shitfaced. They don’t know what they’re doing.

It’s not an excuse.

But the truth is that it happens. They end up together, sitting on the floor of the kitchen in Mike’s apartment, passing the bottle back and forth between them and having the kind of dialogue you would expect from two very drunk men.

And so what if their hands happen to brush each other’s all too often? So what if, when Mike’s trying to make a point, he touches Chester lightly on his arm? It’s a friendly gesture. They’re friends. It’s something friends do.

It’s all perfectly innocent.

Except for the fact that Chester keeps moving closer to Mike, until their thighs are pressed firmly up against one another’s. And the fact that Mike keeps leaning more and more against Chester as he gets more and more drunk. And the fact that their hands occasionally reach out furtively, their fingers tangling in each other.

Or the fact that suddenly, Mike can’t stop staring at Chester’s mouth - the sensual curve of it, the way he forms words, the tiny scar under his bottom lip.

He puts the bottle down; it makes a dull clinking sound on the tile floor. His dark eyes are intense; his hands know what they want to hold.

Later, neither will remember how it happens – only that once they start, they can’t stop.

Their lips meet slowly, hesitantly. Mike brushes his lips softly over Chester’s in a gesture that can’t truly be called a kiss, but then he does it again, more firmly, and Chester makes a little noise in the back of his throat and throws his arm around Mike, closing his eyes and pulling him in for a deep kiss that leaves them both breathless and gasping.

They eventually pull away, resting their foreheads on each other’s, just breathing together in a moment of surprising peace, but then Mike says Chester’s name, lowly, lovingly, and their lips meet again. They kiss slowly, carefully, exploring each other.

Chester shifts, leaning against Mike, and deepens the kiss, running his hands up to bury in Mike’s hair; he grabs hold and tugs, and Mike opens his mouth. The embrace becomes heated; it becomes passionate; it becomes something much more than kissing.

It becomes one of those things that you do when you’re drunk, when you’re drunk and painfully in love and always around each other, wanting; it becomes one of those things that never gets mentioned again for years, that gets locked away, tucked away out of sight but never, never forgotten.

And in the morning, they will have to deal with reality: the sheer impossibility of it, the guilt, the fact that Chester is so sore Mike has to help him stand up. In the morning they will blush and hardly be able to look each other in the eye, and they will stare at each other’s swollen lips when they think the other isn’t looking.

But in those moments, those sweet, stolen, drunken moments, neither of them remembers their responsibilities or obligations; neither of them remembers that they’re supposed to be straight, only supposed to be friends. They don’t remember that friends aren’t supposed to do those things with each other, that they’re not supposed to want to. They don’t remember the harsh world that waits beyond the walls of Mike’s apartment.

All they can remember is each other.

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